


All's Fair

by Okmeamithinknow



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: F/M, Laser Tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 03:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15597780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Okmeamithinknow/pseuds/Okmeamithinknow
Summary: You know what they say,"All's fair in love and war, and laser-tag."





	All's Fair

It’s not often that they meet like this…

Well... technically that’s a lie. They meet like this every Thursday night.

It's not her fault that her best friend chooses to date an overly competitive laser-tag zealot with an addiction to the sport (if you could call it that) that runs almost as deep as his affection for his girlfriend and that they need her to be the fourth to make the teams even. Nor is it her fault that her brother works at the one place that has yet to ban them, and sometimes, when it's not busy and his boss isn't breathing down his neck, he'll let them play an extra round or two for free.

And if she's being perfectly honest with herself, it's not the biggest lie she tells herself.

No, that lie, the one she clings to, even though as the weeks go by becomes glaringly obvious, that she doesn't have feelings for that... that...

Sango shakes her head, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. The arcade is busier than normal, the lot full enough that she can barely see the entrance from the edges of the parking lot.

They're standing at the front door to the arcade; Kagome and Inuyasha holding hands and making eyes at one another. Sango heaves a wistful sigh, heart aching at the sight of the two of them across the parking lot, so happily in love. For a long while she'd wondered if the two of them would ever get together, with their long and complicated history, but they managed to overcome it. They were stronger for it.

A knuckle wraps at the window, and she jumps, a startled cry leaving her lips until she recognizes the hoodie clad figure staring back at her through the window. She should know better than to let herself get lost in thought, but the rain and the sad song playing on the radio on the drive over left her more melancholy than usual.

Sango scowls, waving a hand at Miroku to get him to scoot away from the car so she can open the door. He acquiesces, stepping just far enough away from the door to let her slip out. He cages her in, both hands on the car. One hand dangerously close the swell of her hip, the other palm rests near enough that the wispy hairs that have fallen from her ponytail brush against the fabric of his favorite purple hoodie.

A gust of wind blows, and the rain begins again in earnest. Sango hunkers down into her jacket, pulling the collar higher. She hadn't been prepared for the weather, a freak storm, the last vestiges of spring clinging to summer. It cuts off suddenly, and there's a pattering on canvas.

"Thanks," she says, glancing up at the umbrella Miroku holds over the two of them.

She raises an eyebrow at the shocking pink color, and then flinches as a stray raindrop lands on her cheek. He reaches up and brushes it away with the pad of his thumb. He chuckles at her blush, and the warmth of it creeps up her spine, that is until a hand strokes down her backside.

Sango snaps out a fist, shoving him hard, and grabs the umbrella from his hand. Miroku gasps, wind knocked out of him, and barely misses stumbling over the concrete curb. She leaves him there, gasping for air, and joins her friends at the entrance.

Inuyasha greets her with a curt nod and a passing comment about putting Miroku in his place. Sango laughs as Kagome smacks him in the stomach with the the back of her hand, but the gesture is perfunctory and halfhearted at best. She hands Kagome back her umbrella with a gentle thanks, and then shoves her hands into the pockets of her oversized military jacket. The wait isn't long, Miroku shoots the group a semi-apologetic look and then holds the door open.

It doesn’t take long for them to store their things in the lockers, and gear up in the alcove. Sango’s struggling with the last buckle at her side, when a pair of hands brush across her, pushing them away from the strap. The buckle snaps closed, and the hand slips beneath the strap, resting on her waist, thumb brushing against the fabric of the black fitted t-shirt she’d picked out this morning. She spins to face him, rebuke sitting on the tip of her tongue but he cuts her off.

"My dearest Sango," Miroku says, gathering her hands into his. Her face burns with a blush she knows is rioting across her cheeks. "Have you reconsidered my proposal?"

His proposal, she grimaces, biting back a growl. Every week since they started playing this game, he's made the same offer, the same bet. Every week he’s asked, and every week she’s rejected it. That he’s so confident that she’d accept- and then lose- grates on her nerves.

Her temper rises faster than Miroku expects as she's overcome by the desire to punch him in his horribly handsome face, yank that stupid ponytail, (the one that's outdated and awful and shouldn't be attractive on any man and yet somehow is and manages to piss her off all the more) and slam his head against a wall.

(and then maybe climb him like a tree.)

So she decides to do something reckless.

“Fine,” she says, and she’s as shocked to hear the words come from her mouth as he is, though he hides it behind a cocky smile. Sango rips one of her hands from his grasp and jabs a finger into his chest.

So what if she’d yet to beat him, her own personal best falling just points shy of his average. It’s not like she spent the last eight weekends taking her frustrations— sexual and otherwise— out on every twelve and thirteen year old in the tri-county area that chose to have their birthday party at the facility, and if she made a few of them cry, well then their parent's should have prepared them for the real world and not given them trophies for participation.

“But on one condition. When I win, and I will, you’re done asking me out.”

“That’s all,” he asks, latching onto the finger against his chest and pressing her hand against his heart with a melodramatic sigh that’s completely for show. She tugs on her hand, but he holds it tight, until she stamps on his foot, not hard, but the shock makes him let go. There’s a beat of uncertainty on his face, but it passes just as quickly as it comes, his oh-so-kissable mouth morphing into a smirk.

He feigns consideration before holding out a hand, which she takes, giving it a firm, probably too firm, squeeze. “May the best man win.”

“Oh don’t worry,” Sango says, marching off to take her starting place, and if there’s a little more sway to her hips, it’s because she knows he’s watching. “She will.”

* * *

Stupid. She’s so stupid. Categorically and unequivocally catastrophically stupid. How could she back herself into a corner like this. She should start a list of every single way she’s stupid and everything that’s led up to this, starting with the day she sat down next to him and introduced herself to him in homeroom their freshman year of high school.

She knows him, him and his philandering ways. The flirtatious persona that he wears for the vast majority of the time—so what if he’d let it slip in the quiet moments alone. As if one date with her would be enough keep from hitting on anything with boobs and a nice ass.

“Sango, wait,” Kagome says, placing a hand on her arm, stopping the two of them as they head to their base.

She hadn't realized how fast she'd been walking, too busy berating herself for foolish decisions to notice her best friend until she calls out to her.Sango braces herself for the lecture she knows is coming, but Kagome gives her a sympathetic smile.

“Are you actually going along with this? That if he wins you’ll go out on a date with him?”

“He’s not going to win,” Sango bites back through gritted teeth, and sets off to their base, ready to get started. 

* * *

 

She finds him just minutes into their last round- the final round, the only one that counts he insists- waiting for her, the pious punk. He stands there, nonchalantly leaning against a pillar near her home base, gun hanging at his side, arms folded across his chest completely at ease- like he’s been waiting for her all this time, like he's not even bothering to try- and something inside her snaps. She lets out a feral screech, one that her friends would later tell her they could hear across the arena, and launches herself at him. Her fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt beneath the flashing lights of his vest, pulling him down to her height.

Their lips crash together, and he freezes up at the unexpected action. The kiss, if she could call it that, which she will, is heart-wrenchingly perfect. Too perfect, and just as she's ready to pull herself back, to scramble away, one hand wraps around her. It presses into the small of her back, pulling her closer, and she melts into his embrace.

There’s no slow build up of heat, no coiling warmth settling into the pit of her stomach. It’s instantaneous eruption of flames and heat and no thought behind the action, just an incessant pressing of her lips against his.

She does this awkward shoving thing— a series of tugs and pushes that she wouldn't know how to describe later—, steering him into the newbie vortex, a pocket of the field that the more seasoned veterans of the sport tend to avoid since it offers no tactical advantages.

In the back of her mind she registers the change in the music, the beat growing faster as the final minute of the round winds down.

Miroku moans, and she feels rather than hears it over the sound of the beating bass. It ripples through her body with a heady shiver and his hand slips up to caress her cheek. She presses infinitely closer, vests clacking together, the plastic sound cutting through the lust fueled haze, and she realizes there's not much time left before their round is done. She runs her tongue over the seam of his lips, deepening the kiss one last time before shoving him away and shooting him point blank in the chest as the final ten seconds of the round count down.

Leaving him panting,

and breathless,

and flashing in the field.

She’ll only have five seconds until his pack resets and he can hunt her down, but she’s timed it right. Timed it so that even if he has the opportunity to collect himself, he’ll only have four, maybe five seconds tops before the round ends.

Sango hazards a single glance behind her, unable to wipe off the stupid grin of triumph on her face at Miroku’s dazed expression. Her face hurts from smiling so hard as the final buzzer sounds and she makes her way back to the little nook where they store the vests.

She looks to the counter where Kohaku had been manning the score card printer, but he’s not there.A quick glance over the counter however reveals the teen collapsed on the floor, clutching his stomach as laughter pours out of him.

“He’s— he’s— and his face,” he wheezes, pointing to something behind Sango’s head. It’s then that she remembers the closed circuit monitors that run the entirety of the areas, set to both entice newcomers to the game, and so the employees can monitor the activities within the area without having to be in the room. Her cheeks burn, and she spins to see the screen.

He’s still there. Standing in the corner, staring at the space she’d occupied, mouth gaping like a fish.

Her fingertips ghost along her cheek where his bare skin pressed against hers, and a frantic giggle slips from her lips. Somewhere from behind her someone clears their throat. Sango whips around, giggle cutting off with a gasp.

Inuyasha holds the final score card in one hand, having ripped it out of the loading tray himself— Kohaku’s still on the floor trying to recover, but every time Sango figures he’s done, he’s overcome with yet another fit of laughter. Traitor.— Inuyasha raises a single eyebrow and she sputters, some sort of gibberish that sounds vaguely like Miroku’s name, and ends in an awkward meep. Then she does the only thing that comes to mind. She runs, making a beeline for the nearest restroom and locks herself in a stall.

She hides there for far too long, knowing that sooner or later the boys will send Kagome in after her. But her face burns from the intensity of her blush, the blood searing her skin, and she’s not entirely sure how she’s going to face him again. Splashing cold water onto her face to hopefully cool it down a bit, she looks into the mirror to check her makeup. A half crazed look meets her gaze and she frowns, trying to adopt a more stoic look. She gives up not long after that, realizing its been too long.

Straightening her shirt one last final time, she rounds the corner and runs into a harried looking Kagome. The blush returns in full force at the sly grin Kagome shoots her, but her friend wisely chooses not to comment on the whole mess, deciding to bump her hip instead as a sign of solidarity.

The sight that greets the two of them upon their return is startling, but only in that it’s nothing like anything along the lines of what she expected. Miroku stands shoulders hunched, running a hand through his hair. A sheepish expression on his face as Inuyasha tears into him.

“Not a single point,” he practically yells, arms gesturing wildly. He acknowledges the girls return with a slight nod in their direction without breaking stride in his tirade. “It’s like you were trying to loose. Where the hell was your head?”

Miroku shoots the girls—really Kagome because he staunchly refuses to meet Sango’s eye— a pleading look and Kagome, who at this point in their relationship is well versed in calming down her irritable boyfriend. She sidles up to him, slipping beneath an arm that’s waving frantically. She wraps her arms around his middle, and leans up to press a kiss against his cheek. His diatribe ends with a sputter, an awkward silence creeping across the group in its wake as they collect their things and head to the exit.

For the first time it’s her turn, as the undisputed winner, to make the decision on where they go for their traditional celebratory drinks and dinner, but the feeling of triumph is buried beneath the fact that Miroku has yet to make eye contact with her. There’s a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, like maybe she made a mistake. She’s not going to go to dinner, she decides, she’s just going to go home and drink the bottle of wine that’s been chilling in the fridge, and if she’s lucky, there’ll still be a bottle of the good vodka in the freezer from their last girls night.

Sango slips into her coat, wrapping an arm across her stomach, subtly curling in on herself as she drops back from the rest of the group. She stops completely, one foot dangling over the edge of the sidewalk when a hand cups her elbow. She looks up to meet Miroku’s violet gaze.

“Well,” he says, in lieu of a segue. “I guess… You won.”

Sango wants to gloat. Wants to rub it in his face. Wants to make him say it again so she can record it, and turn it into a soundbite so she can play it over and over again, but the expression on said face stops her.

“Guess that means you have to stop asking me out,” she says, and his face sinks further.

“Yeah,” he says softly, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He gives her a wry smile, the faintest dusting of a blush sprinkled across his cheeks. They stand there for far too long and Inuyasha calls across the parking lot. They jump, turning to where their friend leans out the window of his truck. He gives them a look that screams, _‘Are you coming or are you going to just keep making faces at each other?’_ And somewhere in the back of her mind Sango wonders if Kagome hasn’t already lectured him about harassing the two of them.

Sango blushes again, face feeling like it could spontaneously combust from the heat of it. She hazards a glance over at Miroku who’s sporting a blush to rival her own. He meets her gaze, face relaxing into an easier grin and shrugs. They turn, each heading to their cars.

"Miroku!" she says, calling over her shoulder as she opens the door to her car. His head snaps up, brows knitting together questioningly. “Pick me up tomorrow at eight.”

His face lights up, his entire countenance changing as her words register.

“Eight,” he calls, with a nod. “Wear something nice!”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and Comments appreciated


End file.
